Introduction:
I cannot believe I let this happen. I cannot believe I allowed my son into my bed. I can claim I was drunk, confused, depressed, lonely, or even out of my mind with lust; but there is no excuse for a mother doing what I did. I am not here to make excuses, or to claim that there is any excuse; there is none. But please as you read this, please do not condemn me until you understand the events that led up to me committing the gravest of all sins: a sexual relationship with my son.
My name is Janet. I am a 35 year old and recently widowed.
Eric is my only child. I got pregnant in my senior year of high school to the boy to whom I lost my virginity. After much soul searching and debate, I married Bob, and Bob joined the service. Bob was invited to attend office candidate training, and became an officer in the army. Despite the 'less than ideal beginning of our marriage, we had a good marriage until Bob was killed in action a few months back.
During our 18 years of marriage, I never strayed; I never cheated on Bob despite being left alone for months at a stretch as Bob was deployed overseas. Until the events of a few months ago, Bob was the only man who had ever entered me, and the only man with whom I had ever had a climax.
That is correct, my son, Eric, was only the second man with whom I had sex.
Despite what I am about to tell you, I am not a slut. In fact, many people would consider me a bit of a prude. I was a faithful wife who would have remained faithful and relatively wholesome had the events not transpired as they did. Before Bob's death, I was living a good life, and was generally happy in my role as a mother and a soldier's wife.
The point is, before you judge me too harshly, realize: 1.) before my husband was killed, I would never have believed myself capable of doing these things, certainly not with my son; and 2.) you really cannot be sure what you would or would not do until you are actually faced with a situation.
Here is my story.
Chapter 1: I lose my husband & fall into the bottle:
Even before Bob was killed, it was pretty much just my only son, Eric, and me at home most of the time. Bob was a career military officer who spent extended periods of time deployed overseas. Since many of his deployments were to war zone areas, Eric and I often remained back in the states. We often lived in military housing, either on the base or immediately off the base
Bob was a good man, who loved his country and had a strong sense of duty. He truly believed that the actions of our military served to make the world a better place. Me, I am not so sure. But this story is not about political debates surrounding the U.S. military.
As a military officer, Bob was a stern, complex man, who was difficult to get to know. He would pray to his God one moment; and then drink heavily and cuss at his family the next.
He also had a difficult time showing any vulnerability, emotional or otherwise. I know he loved us; but at times he struggled with precisely how to show that love.
Bob was deployed in the original 'desert storm' and 'desert shield', and also served during the second Iraq invasion before being deployed to Afghanistan. We received word that Bob was killed shortly after Eric's 18th birthday, the summer before his senior year in high school. Bob's vehicle had encountered a road side bomb. He did not survive the attack.
The news of my husband's death was a devastating blow to me personally; but Eric seemed to be able to deal with the loss only slightly better than I was. I fell into a bottle, became a heavy drinker. I was 'passed out drunk' most nights by 8 p.m.
Eric had been a good student, active in sports, and really never got into any trouble prior to his dad's death. Before Bob's death, Eric talked about attending the Air Force Academy and making the military his career, similar to his father. But his plans and his behavior changed significantly that summer.
Eric's demise coincided with the news of Dad's death, and I am convinced was a direct result of it. To be honest, since I was not in any condition to help anyone most nights, Eric was left to guide himself through this grief with little help from me. We were both dealing with our loss and grief in our own way.
Despite my strongest objections, Eric quit the basketball team, where he had been one of the better forwards on the team. He also started drinking and smoking marijuana. Now none of these are unusual or that horrific for teenage boys, but the change in Eric was clear and evident, and the direction he was heading was not good. Eric also made it clear that he was no longer interested in the military as a college choice or as a career.
In short, despite wanting to help Eric I was lost in my own alcoholic nosedive and grief. I was in no position to help anyone else.
It was after 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night, about four months after Bob's death. I had been drinking vodka and orange juice while waiting for Eric to come home. I decided to take a warm bath and fixed myself one last large drink; one that I really did not need. It was in a large plastic tumbler, and although I did not precisely its contents, it likely was the equivalent to three shots of vodka. I knew that it would put me well over the edge.
As I prepared my warm bath, I stood naked in front of the mirror, naked holding a large plastic cup of vodka and orange juice. I studied my naked form through my inebriated eyes. Objectively speaking, I am an attractive woman. I am about 5 ft 6 inches, with a slender figure and small, but perky breasts. I am blonde with green eyes. I have been told, on many occasions, that I resemble Meg Ryan. Even slightly drunk, I could appreciate the fact that I was still attractive; my breasts were firm, my nipples erect, my stomach flat and my butt shapely. Although I had not fixed my hair in weeks, I still looked good. I enjoyed the fact that even without make-up, I still could turn heads.
